


Children of the Revolution

by purewanderlust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: Enjolras is a penniless writer, new to Montmartre when he finds himself involved in the madcap schemes of a group of bohemian revolutionaries. But even as he writes a musical about Beauty, Freedom, Truth, and Love, he never expected to fall in love himself.Especially with Le Saphir, the star of the infamous Moulin Rouge.





	1. Wherein Enjolras Meets the Bohemian Revolutionaries

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, this has been percolating in my brain for literal months without bearing fruit. It only took one (1) viewing of Aaron Tviet's version of Come What May to get me started. Unbetaed because I got excited and wrote the whole first chapter in one sitting.
> 
> If you like my work, please feel free to [ buy me a ko-fi ](https://ko-fi.com/purewanderlust)!

Enjolras had always considered himself a sensible man, and up until now, he’d had no reason to doubt it. True, he was a writer, and therefore prone to certain flights of fancy, but none had ever before strayed beyond the pages of his stories.

Perhaps he had misjudged his own character. It was really the only explanation for where he found himself now: a drafty one-room flat with nothing but a narrow bed and his secondhand typewriter for company.

He didn't even remember how the argument had started. On the best of days, Enjolras and his father could barely stand each other. Apparently, on the worst days, Enjolras got himself disowned. All he remembered was a film of red over his vision, a lot of shouting on both sides, and finally his father ordering him to either apologize, or to leave and never come back. Enjolras hadn't hesitated to walk out the door. Certainly not sensible behavior on his part, regardless of how desperate he was to escape the selfish bourgeois lifestyle of his parents’ home.

A one-room flat in Montmartre was the only thing he could afford with the money he had. He had departed with nothing but his typewriter and the money in his pocket.  Enjolras wasn't confident it would even stretch to pay for a second month’s rent. He could feel all of the adrenaline from the argument draining away, and the situation suddenly felt very bleak.

It started to rain. Enjolras watched with exhausted dismay as water started to puddle on the windowsill; clearly there was a leak somewhere. Wind rattled at the single glass pane and the candle on the desk snuffed out.

Enjolras sighed. He was immensely grateful to have finally gotten away from his domineering father, but that didn't mean the situation was ideal.

“I'll just have to write something good enough to sell,” he told himself. “A celebration of the bohemian lifestyle that I have chosen.”

A crash of thunder made the whole building shake and the candle fell off the desk. Enjolras put his head in his hands.

Maybe in the morning. He threw himself down on the cot, ignoring the way it creaked in protest. Surely things would look better in the light of day. A good night's sleep would do him wonders. Enjolras let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

That's when the ceiling caved in with a terrific crash.

Enjolras’ eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright. There was a stranger lying prone on the floor. As he started to stir, Enjolras looked up at the six foot wide hole in the celling. Four shocked faces stared back.

“Are you alright?” One of them called down. Enjolras wasn't sure if he was being addressed, or if they were asking the burly man on the floor, so he didn't answer. He picked his way through the wreckage of splintered wood, crouching down to put a hand on the stranger's back.

“Are you hurt?”

The man leapt to his feet with startling speed. He towered over Enjolras, who took a reflexive step backwards before he realized the man was smiling.

“Never better!” He exclaimed. Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the unexpected cheerfulness. “What happened?”

“You fell through my ceiling,” answered Enjolras, gesturing to the hole.

The man's eyes widened. “Goddamn, I'm sorry.”

“Listen; why don't you both come upstairs,” suggested the same man who had spoken before. ‘It'll be easier to discuss the situation that way.”

It was a sensible request, so Enjolras found himself following the other man out into the hallway. He didn't bother to lock the door.

“I'm Bahorel, by the way.” The man offered as they made their way up the creaking staircase.

“Enjolras,” he responded. “I'd say pleased to meet you, but--”

“But I smashed a hole in your roof,” Bahorel finished agreeably. “Totally understandable.” He flung the door open with a flourish and herded Enjolras into the room. “Everyone, this is Enjolras, the man we have imposed ourselves on today!”

Enjolras turned to look at the assembled young men. Besides Bahorel, there were four others, all around the same age. Their rooms were not much larger than Enjolras’, but somehow they had managed to shove a battered upright piano into the corner, next to what appeared to be theatrical set pieces painted to look like a mountain.

“We're terribly sorry about the trouble,” said the man sitting at the piano. He was redheaded, wearing a ridiculously long striped scarf and a bemused expression. “I suppose it's what we get for renting such a cheap space.”

One of the other men scoffed, which Enjolras thought was rather bold, considering he was dressed as a nun and sitting on a hand-painted mountain. “We hardly can afford anything better, Feuilly.”

The redhead--Feuilly--shrugged. “I doubt that makes Enjolras feel any better.”

It was true, but Enjolras felt it would be rather rude to say so. Before he could formulate an appropriate response, the nun hopped gracefully from the set and skirted around the hole in the middle of the room to approach him.

“Hullo, I'm Courfeyrac,” he said, offering his hand. “I really am very sorry about the trouble we've caused you. We were just rehearsing our new musical,  _ Spectacular, Spectacular _ when Bahorel fell asleep and tumbled off the set.”

“Fell asleep?”

The sensible fellow, the one who had suggested Enjolras join them, spoke up. “He has a disorder called narcolepsy, which causes him to fall asleep at random.”

“That's Combeferre,” explained Courfeyrac. “He's a doctor.”

“Just a medical student, really,” Combeferre said humbly. “Anyway, we cannot apologize enough for the damage we've done.”

His expression was so earnest that all of Enjolras frustration drained away. “Perhaps the person at fault is the landlord, for not keeping his buildings in good condition.”

Courfeyrac chuckled. “You get straight to the heart of the matter. Unfortunately, the owner of this property tends to prioritize the theatre he also owns.”

“The theatre?” Enjolras asked, curious despite himself.

“Yes, the Moulin Rouge!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “Don't tell me you've never heard of it?”

“I've heard of the Moulin Rouge. But I thought it was--”

“A night club?” Feuilly guessed.

“A dance hall?” Courfeyrac chimed in.

“A den of iniquity?” Bahorel added.

“Well... yes.” Enjolras admitted. “My father has a rather negative view of this part of Paris.”

“The Moulin Rouge is all of those things,” Combeferre said. “But since Mademoiselle Thenardier took over management, she's been looking for ways to make it more legitimate.”

“Something that will never happen if we don't have this musical ready to present to the financiers tomorrow!” cried the fifth man, who had remained silent up until now. “Ferre, I understand you want to sort out the situation with the ceiling, but we certainly won't have the money to repay whatshisname here unless we finish this song!”

“We weren't getting anywhere before anyway, Marius.”

Marius’ face turned red, fingers tightening around what had to be the score. “Well we might've, if you would stop vetoing my lyrics!”

“They weren't very good lyrics,” Combeferre retorted.

Feuilly took a sharp breath and Bahorel started coughing in what appeared to be an attempt to disguise his laughter.

“Fine!” Marius snapped, flinging down the sheaf of papers on the floor. “See if you can put together a musical without a lyricist! I'm done!”

Before anyone could say anything, he'd stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Oh dear!” Courfeyrac frowned. “Did you have to be quite so harsh with him, Ferre?”

Combeferre shook his head. “You know as well as I do that his lyrics were terrible. We wouldn't have been able to get the play financed with those.”

“We certainly won't be able to get it financed without  _ any _ ,” Feuilly muttered.

Courfeyrac made a distressed noise, winging his hands. “Where are we going to find a writer on such short notice?”

None of them even seemed to remember Enjolras was there. He should've just walked away and started making plans to find new lodging.

But this was the bohemian ideal, right? Living moment to moment, in pursuit of Truth and Love? He opened his mouth.

“I'm actually a writer.”

Four pairs of eyes turned on him.

“You are?” Courfeyrac gasped. “O Dionysus, you have smiled upon me this day!”

“Alright, Courf, that's enough,” Combeferre said, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile. “Enjolras, if you'd like to come on as our lyricist and the play is funded, your percentage of the take should be more than ample for repairing the ceiling.”

“Mademoiselle Thenardier will never agree,” Feuilly said, plunking out a sad melody on the piano. “No offense, Enjolras, but she hired Marius because she knows who he is. You've just gotten here. Have you ever done anything like this before?”

“Well no, but--”

“He seems to have a good head on his shoulders,” Bahorel interjected, clapping Enjolras on the back. “I say we give him a chance!”

“But Feuilly is right,” Combeferre put in. “Even if we give him a chance, we have to figure out how to convince Eponine to do the same.”

“I have a plan!” Courfeyrac announced. “We'll dress him up in my best suit. Take him to see Le Saphir perform, and introduce them afterwards. If anyone can convince Eponine--”

“Saphir won't see an impoverished writer!” Feuilly protested.

“That's why we tell everyone that Enjolras is famous English poet! And once he woos the lead of the show with his words, Eponine can't possibly refuse to let him write  _ Spectacular, Spectacular _ !”

Enjolras stomach turned. Lying his way into the Moulin Rouge in hopes of writing a play for a theatre that wasn't even on the map? Suddenly, it seemed like too much. “I--I don't know if I can do this.”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac demanded.

“I came from a very wealthy family on the other side of Paris. I don't think I'm capable of being a true bohemian revolutionary!” He backed towards the door, getting his hand on the knob before Courfeyrac spoke again.

“Do you believe in beauty?”

Enjolras frowned. “Yes?”

“What about freedom?” Bahorel asked.

“Of course.”

“Truth?” Combeferre wondered.

“Yes, obviously.” Enjolras snapped. “What is your--”

“What about love?” Courfeyrac interjected.

“Love? Above all things, I believe in love. Love is like oxygen, love is a many-splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong. All you need is love!” The words poured from Enjolras’ lips before he could even think about it.

Courfeyrac looked delighted. “See? You don't have to worry about being a true bohemian revolutionary. We're going to make you the very voice of the revolution!”

Enjolras grinned, despite himself. There was a feeling fluttering in his stomach. Excitement, maybe. Or anticipation for something he didn't even know yet. “Alright, alright! I'll do it.”

A cheer went up from the others. “Excellent!” Bahorel cried. “Tomorrow you meet The Sapphire. But tonight, we celebrate with Mademoiselle Emerald!” He produced a bottle of absinthe from one of the shelves and poured them each a drink. He lifted his glass in a toast.

“Vive la revolution!”


	2. Wherein The Illustrious Le Saphir Performs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on chapter two! This movie is very visual and it's been more challenging than I expected to turn into a written story. Nonetheless, here's the next installment. As always, comments are much appreciated.

 

The next evening found Enjolras standing in Courfeyrac's flat, tugging self-consciously on the sleeve of his borrowed suit. Courfeyrac himself was bouncing around the room with poorly-contained excitement. He was still wearing the habit. 

Enjolras wasn't sure how he had so much energy. His head was pounding with a hangover that made him irritable and exhausted. They had stayed up drinking into the wee hours, growing more and more exuberant about their scheme as the night wore on. Enjolras had collapsed into bed as the sun was rising, too drunk to notice the cold or the hole in the ceiling. He ended up sleeping well past noon, only rising when Combeferre was sent to rouse him. 

“You aren't wearing that to the Moulin Rouge, are you?” He asked, gesturing to Courfeyrac's costume. 

Courfeyrac didn't seem to hear the question. “Oh! I'm so excited! Once you get Le Saphir's approval, we can put on the play of our dreams!” He flung a bowtie at Enjolras, who only barely managed to catch it. He spun away towards the piano, bouncing happily.

Enjolras scowled. “And you've already arranged for me to meet this Le Saphir?” He glanced up at Courfeyrac, pausing in his fumbled attempts at knotting the bowtie. “Please don't tell me we're winging it.”

“Don't worry about a thing!” Courfeyrac said airly. “All you have to do is recite some poetry. Let me take care of the rest.” He reached out and deftly tied Enjolras’ bowtie, flashing a dimpled grin. Enjolras did his best to return it.

“Now,” said Courfeyrac, “are you ready to go?”

“Depends,” Enjolras returned with a wry smile. “Are you planning on wearing the habit?”

Courfeyrac glanced down at his clothes and laughed. “You'd be surprised; some of them might like it. Alas, not tonight. I  _ am  _ trying to be professional, after all.”

Once he had changed into his second-best suit, Courfeyrac and Enjolras joined the others down on the street. They were all dressed in their best as well, though there appeared to be a disagreement regarding the definition of the word. Feuilly was still wearing his threadbare scarf with his suit. Bahorel was in a beautiful red waistcoat, but he hadn't worn a shirt underneath. Combeferre, at least, had taken the assignment seriously. He even had a top hat. Courfeyrac clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“It's too late to make them change,” Combeferre said before his friend could even start his diatribe. “As long as Enjolras looks well, the rest hardly matters.”

“I imagine Enjolras always looks well,” Bahorel grumbled. “He's got the face of a cherub.”

Enjolras flushed and ducked his head. He was perfectly aware of his looks, but that didn't mean he liked hearing about them.

“Oh very well,” Courfeyrac sighed, taking him by the elbow. “To the Moulin Rouge!”

The theatre was only a few blocks away, so they set off, Courfeyrac heading the pack. Enjolras heard it before he saw it; music and screams of laughter. When they rounded the next corner, it was there before them. 

It would have been impossible to miss. While the buildings surrounding it were of drab, grey stone, the Moulin Rouge was lit up in neon light. There was a red windmill on the top of the building, strings of lights wrapped around its base. Enjolras tilted his head back and watched the moonlight shine down through the spinning blades.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Bahorel said with a knowing grin.

“It’s remarkable,” agreed Enjolras.

“Even better inside!” Courfeyrac cried, grabbing his arm. “Come on, let’s go!”

Inside, the club was loud and dimly lit. Enjolras found himself gripping at Combeferre’s sleeve for reassurance as Courfeyrac led them towards the main dance floor. They quickly slid into a booth facing the stage. There were no dancers, but there was a band playing an upbeat, raucous tune that Enjolras didn’t recognize. 

“Oh, good! We made it in time to see the Diamond Dogs!” Bahorel cheered. 

“Diamond Dogs?” 

“Eponine’s...dancing troupe,” Combeferre explained. Enjolras got the sense that he was withholding some detail. “Le Saphir is the headliner, but there are several other performers.”

Before Enjolras could ask any follow-up questions, the lights went down and there was a rolling drumbeat, so he turned to face the stage.

A spotlight came on, pointing at the curtains and a moment later, a young woman burst from behind them with a wide smile. She wore a pair of men’s trousers with a corset and a red tailcoat draped over her shoulders. There was a black silk top hat, much nicer than Combeferre’s, perched at a rakish angle on top of her dark hair. Though she was small in stature, her voice boomed when she shouted to the crowd.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Moulin Rouge!”  A roar of approval went up from the crowd and she beamed at them. “I am your stunning hostess, Mademoiselle Thenardier! Are you ready for the Diamond Dogs?”

Courfeyrac put his finger and thumb in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Bahorel pounded the table with his fists. Even Feuilly and Combeferre were hollering and applauding. Enjolras tentatively joined in, clapping his hands with the rest of the room.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you!” Mademoiselle Thenardier cupped a hand around her ear, giving the audience a devilish smirk. They screamed back, cheering and stamping their feet. Enjolras shrank back into the corner of the booth, overwhelmed by the whole experience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Diamond Dogs!” she cried, stepping to the side as the curtain rose. 

Four dancers--two men and two women--stepped forward into the light and the music kicked up again, playing even louder to be heard over the audience.

The Diamond Dogs were all dressed in bright, garish colors, their faces painted with rogue and lipstick. They grinned in unison and started to dance. Enjolras could immediately see why they were so popular; they were hypnotizing to watch. The two female dancers circled each other, spinning in complicated pirouettes and jumps that he could barely follow, yet they never seemed to encroach on each other’s space. They looked like the personification of day and night--one tall and pale with a cascade of blonde curls, and the other curvy and dark-haired with beautiful olive skin. As the music grew more frantic, the men joined them; one was broad and bald, and the other was so slender he almost looked frail. Both moved with the same grace as the women, the four of them moving so fast it made Enjolras dizzy to watch.

“The Can-Can!” Eponine cried, and the dancers fell into line, side by side, and began a series of high kicks, getting faster and faster to keep up with the tempo of the music. The crowd screamed their approval.

“This is quite the experience,” Enjolras muttered to Combeferre. The medical student grinned at him.

“You get used to it.” 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Eponine was back center stage, her eyes sparkling. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! The prize jewel of the Moulin Rouge, Le Saphir!”

The cheering was so loud that at first, Enjolras didn’t even realize the music had stopped. Gradually, the sounds of the audience died away and the room was filled with anticipatory silence for the first time since they had stepped foot in the place. The lights dimmed until it was near-complete darkness and then a spotlight turned on with a pop, pointing straight up towards the ceiling.

  
Enjolras craned his neck, staring up. There was a trapeze lowering from a trapdoor in the ceiling, and someone was sitting on it, legs crossed demurely. He couldn’t make out their features through the brightness of the spotlight, but as the trapeze came within about eight feet of the floor, the rest of the stage lights came up again and they were thrown into sharp relief.

Le Saphir was a man, dressed in a pair of tight black breeches, shoes with spats, and a bright green bowtie around his neck. His chest was bare, revealing firm abdominal muscles and broad shoulders. He had a mess of shiny black curls and a crooked smile on his face. He released the suspension cords and dropped backwards, hanging upside down by his knees. His bright blue eyes met Enjolras’ for a split second and he winked. Enjolras gulped.

  
“How are we all doing this evening?” he crowed, still hanging upside-down. “Would you like me to sing you a little song?”

The crowd went wild again, but Enjolras barely heard it, mesmerized as Le Saphir flipped upright again and leapt to stand on the trapeze bar. He started to sing, in a voice as smooth as honey. Enjolras couldn’t look away.

  
“Are you well, Enjolras?” Feuilly asked. He blinked, startled from his reverie. The knowing smirk he received in return made him feel stripped bare. Enjolras dropped his gaze to the floor, but it was pulled, inexorably back to the performer above the stage.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go see about setting up that meeting!” Courfeyrac chirped, oblivious to the interaction. Enjolras spun to look at him, alarmed.

“What, now?!”

“Of course!” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the two of you can be totally alone.”

“Alone?” Enjolras repeated, anxiety ratcheting up a few more notches. “Oh, Courf, I dunno…”

“It will be fine!” Courfeyrac assured him, throwing an arm out with a dramatic flourish. At the same moment, a waiter with a tray full of drinks passed behind him. Enjolras saw what was going to happen before it did. Courfeyrac’s arm swept the drinks off the tray and straight into the lap of the wealthy-looking man sitting at the next table. “Oops!”

The man rose from his seat with a snarl. “How dare you!” 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said in the tones of a man who has realized his mistake, “may I borrow your hanky?”  
  
Enjolras hastily thrust it into his hand and Courfeyrac attempted to dab at some of the damp spots on the third man’s shirt, but this only served to enrage him further. 

“You think you can just lay your hands on me, you wretch?” 

“Fine!” Courfeyrac threw the handkerchief in his face. “Clean it off yourself, you bourgeois pig!” 

“Courf!” exclaimed Combeferre. The man who had been sitting next to the wealthy man rose to his feet as well. He was at least two heads taller than any of the rest of them, clearly a bodyguard of some sort. Courfeyrac took an involuntary step backwards at his scowl. 

“I’ll just...go back to my table, terribly sorry.”

Luckily for all of them, the man and his bodyguard seemed content to let him scuttle away. Courfeyrac slumped back into the booth next to Enjolras. Feuilly patted his shoulder.

“I do wish you would think before you speak, sometimes.” He said chidingly.  
  
Bahorel snorted. “I don’t. We could’ve taken both of them.”

In all the chaos, Enjolras had finally had his attention pulled away from the stage. He turned to see what he had missed during his friend’s confrontation, only to find Le Saphir standing directly in front of his, eyes raking over his figure appraisingly.

“I believe you were expecting me?”

Enjolras flushed. He felt pinned in place. “Um. Yes?” 

Le Saphir’s grin widened. “Wonderful. Let’s dance.” Before Enjolras could process what was happening, calloused fingers were closing around his wrist and he was being yanked to his feet. 

“That seemed to go well,” he heard Combeferre mutter as he was dragged into the crowd.   
  
“Hit him with your best poetry, Enjolras!” cried Courfeyrac, “We’re all counting on you.”

Enjolras stumbled to a stop amid the revelers and found himself face-to-face with Le Saphir, so close their noses were almost brushing. He jumped back.

“Oh, hello...” he said stupidly and was rewarding with another blinding grin.

“Grantaire,” supplied the other, putting his hands on Enjolras waist and dragging him closer. “Or R, if you like. The Saphir thing is Eponine’s invention. Stage names and all.” He trailed his fingers up Enjolras’ spine, eyes sparkling mischievously. 

“Uh, the p-pleasure is mine.” 

“It’s so wonderful of you to take an interest in our little show,” Grantaire continued, swaying with the music. Obligingly, Enjolras put his arms around his neck and swayed with him. He was acutely aware of every place their skin touched.

“Of course, I’d be delighted to be involved. Uh, assuming you want me.”

“I’m sure I will,” Grantaire purred. Enjolras felt the heat rising to his face again and he tried for a confident smile.  
  
“Courfeyrac suggested a private poetry reading.”

Grantaire smirked. “Oh, I love a good...poetry reading. But first, I must finish this number. Find me at the elephant room after the show. It’s through the backdoor, there. Jehan will let you past.” He blew a kiss and disappeared backwards into the crowd. Seconds later, he reappeared on the trapeze as it started to lift towards the ceiling again. He was singing again, but he seemed a little short of breath. This close, Enjolras could see his knuckles turning white where he was gripping the suspension cord. Then, with a sharp cut off gasp, Grantaire’s eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled backwards off of the trapeze.

Enjolras was nowhere near close enough to do anything, but he reached out anyway. A tall, slender person with plaited ginger hair caught Grantaire before he hit the floor. They didn’t look strong enough to perform such a feat, but they lifted him in their arms like it was nothing and vanished behind the curtain.

There was a moment of dead silence as everyone’s eyes followed the departure. Suddenly, Eponine Thenardier leapt forward, scrambling up onto the trapeze herself. She swept her hat off her head and gestured towards the curtain.

“Ladies and gentlemen! The incomparable Le Saphir!” 

The audience burst into applause.  _ Saphir, Saphir, Saphir! _ They chanted in unison. Everyone seemed more than content to accept what had just happened  as part of the act.  
  
But Enjolras had seen how pale Grantaire’s face was. He saw how Eponine’s eyes darted worriedly towards the curtains, and he knew it had not been an act. And despite having just met the man, Enjolras was suddenly desperate to make sure he was okay. 

Luckily, he had a way to do so. Thus resolved, Enjolras straightened his jacket and headed for the backdoor. 

  
  



	3. Wherein a Case of Mistaken Identity Occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get the worst secondhand embarrassment when I watch this scene in the movie, even as I'm laughing. I hope it doesn't come across too terribly awkward. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. As always, comments are my lifeblood and updates are weekly...ish.

Grantaire woke to the pungent odor of ammonia. He jerked upright, nearly knocking the smelling salts from the hand that was waving them in front of his face.

“Parnasse?” He gasped, “What happened? I--” He stopped, overcome by a fit of coughing that wracked his whole body. 

Montparnasse, for of course it was he, wrapped an arm around his shoulders to steady him and offered a handkerchief. “You fainted onstage. Don't strain yourself.”

Finally, the cough abated. Grantaire pretended not to see the spots of blood dotting the handkerchief as he let it flutter to the floor. He couldn't so easily ignore the look of irritated concern Montparnasse leveled at him.

“You need to stop pushing yourself so hard,” he chided.

“Get back to me once you figure out how to live in this world without money,” retorted Grantaire.

Montparnasse scowled. “Well, if The Baron decides to become your patron, hopefully it won't be a concern anymore.”

There was a delicate snort from the doorway and they both turned to see Cosette leaning against the frame. “Is that what he's calling himself these days?” she asked, “He's rich, but he certainly isn't noble.”

“He can call himself whatever he likes if he's got the money to back it up,” Montparnasse retorted. Cosette shrugged.

“Suppose that's true.”

“How do you know him?” Grantaire asked. “He's never come until tonight, in all the time I've been here, even though he owns the place.”

Cosette’s expression darkened. “Well I've been here longer than you, haven't I? You forget; Eponine and I grew up together. Of course I know her brute of a father.”

“That's quite enough of that,” Montparnasse cut in smoothly. “Cosette, R isn't going back out tonight, so you'd better head out there. I'm sure there's lots of lonely gentlemen who need a dance partner.”

Cosette looked as if she wanted to say more, but Montparnasse arched a delicate eyebrow at her and she turned and swept out of the room without another word. 

“Is he really a brute?” Grantaire asked when she was gone. Montparnasse didn't respond. “He seemed rather shy when I danced with him before.”

“I don't know him well,” admitted Montparnasse. He helped Grantaire to his feet and followed him over to the vanity. “We've only met once or twice.”

Grantaire sighed. “I suppose it doesn't really matter. He gets what he wants and we get the money we need to turn this into a proper theatre.” 

Montparnasse tossed him a white dress shirt. “You'll finally get to be a real actor, R. Everyone in Paris will know your name.”

“You really think so?” Grantaire asked, pausing in the process of buttoning up his shirt. “I'd do anything for that.”

Montparnasse selected a deep red waistcoat from the clothing rack and passed it to him. “I don't doubt you are capable of it. Good luck tonight.” He clapped a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. 

Just as Grantaire finished dressing, Eponine burst through the door. “Are you alright?” she demanded.

“Everything's fine,” Grantaire answered flippantly, “How do I look?”

“Absolutely wonderful!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to take his hands in hers. “You're the most stunning man in France.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Do you really think he'll invest?” 

Eponine smiled, showing all her teeth. “I do. He is very much looking forward to your private meeting.”

“I suppose I'd better go, then,” Grantaire said. “I told Jehan to take him straight to the elephant.”

“Yes, you'd better.” Eponine stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.”Go get him, tiger. We're all counting on you.”

The Baron was already waiting when Grantaire arrived. He was standing in the middle of the room like he was afraid to touch anything, turning his hat over and over in his hands. When he saw Grantaire, his eyes widened incrementally. 

“Oh...hello again.”

“Mmm, hello indeed,” Grantaire hummed appreciatively. In the dim lighting of the club, he hadn't been able to get a proper look at the Baron’s features, but now he could see that the other man was actually gorgeous. He had curls like spun gold and eyes that were a brighter, more stunning blue than Grantaire's own. “I must say, you look much younger than I expected you to.”

The Baron gave him a confused smile. “Tha--thank you?”

What had Cosette been going on about? There wasn't a brutish bone in this man's body. “Would you like to start with a little champagne?” Grantaire asked, turning to the food cart Eponine prepared for these situations.

“I, um, I’d rather get this over and done with, if you don't mind.”

Grantaire set the bottle down with a little more force than necessary. “Oh.”

“How shall I begin?”

Grantaire turned to face him with a rakish grin. “How about you join me on the bed?” He sat down on the mattress and patted the space next to him. 

“Actually, I prefer to do it standing.”

“Oh,” Grantaire repeated. He was starting to feel a little off-balance. It wasn't a feeling he was familiar with and he didn't like it at all. “Alright, that's fine too.”

“You don't have to stand!” The Baron said as Grantaire started to rise. “It's quite long and I--I want you to be comfortable.”

“What is _ happening _ ?” Grantaire demanded, slamming his open palms down on the mattress.

The Baron looked immediately contrite. “I'm so sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me. It's just...I’m very nervous.”

“Ohhhh!” Grantaire realized, “I completely understand. Let me take care of you, darling.” He stood and crossed to the Baron with a smile. Before the other man could get himself worked up with anxiety again, Grantaire slid his hand down the length of his body and gave his cock a gentle squeeze through his trousers.

The Baron's mouth fell open on a gasp and his eyes fluttered shut. The visual was so erotic it made Grantaire's mouth go dry. But this was just business and he couldn't afford to get attached. 

“Let's make love!” He declared, shoving the Baron down onto the bed. His eyes flew open, shocked.

“Make  _ love _ ?” He asked, his voice going very high.

“Don't you want to?” Grantaire said, climbing onto the bed to straddle him. 

“Well, I--I actually--” 

Grantaire put a finger to his lips. “Ah ah ah, now be honest.” He ground his hips down and watched the Baron’s eyes flutter shut again as he bit back a groan. “Can't you feel the  _ poetry _ ?”

“What?” The Baron gasped. 

“Mmhmm, just feel it.” Grantaire started to undo his belt buckle. “I need your poetry now!”

That got a reaction, though it was not exactly what Grantaire was expecting. The Baron scrambled upright, unseating him, and Grantaire fell off the bed with a yelp. By the time he managed to push himself up to his knees, the Baron was standing again.

“It's a little bit funny,” he said. “This feeling inside.”

“What?” 

“I'm not one of those who can easily hide.”

“Oh, I see.” Grantaire had met many people in his lifetime, and more than once he had entertained a guest with unusual...sensibilities.

Admittedly, he'd never had a poetry kink before, but he could work with this. 

“I don't have much money, but boy, if I did--”

“Ah, yes! That's what I want,” Grantaire cried in his most wanton voice. The Baron's face flushed, but he kept going. 

“I'd buy a big house where we both could live.” 

Grantaire moaned appreciatively, sprawling back against the blankets that had slid off the bed.

“If I was a sculptor...but then again, no--”

“Mmmm, yes! Wonderful!”

“Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show…”

Grantaire moaned again and the Baron turned away, towards the window. Grantaire frowned. 

“I know it's not much, but it's the best I can do…” the Baron trailed off and Grantaire sat up, wondering if he was finished. 

Then the Baron turned back to face him blue eyes blazing with determination. When he opened his mouth again, instead of reciting, he began to sing.

“ _ My gift is my song and this one's for you.” _

He had a beautiful voice. Grantaire couldn't look away. He looked so earnest. Grantaire felt dizzy with it.

“ _ And you can tell everybody that this is your song. I know it's quite simple but now that it's done… _ ” Before Grantaire realized what was happening, the Baron had taken his hands and pulled him to his feet. Their eyes met again and he smiled shyly.  “ _ I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words...how wonderful life is, now you're in the world. _ ”

“Wow,” Grantaire said. “I've, uh, never been serenaded before.” He reached up with trembling fingers to brush those golden curls out of the Baron's eyes. “I've always sworn I'd never fall in love, but I think with a handsome and talented baron like yourself I never really stood a chance.”

He leaned forward, intent on stealing a kiss from those perfect lips, but the other man pulled back with a confused frown. 

“I'm not a baron.”

“What?”

“I'm a writer.”

“A writer?” Grantaire exclaimed.

The Baron--no, the young man who was definitely  _ not  _ a baron--nodded. “Yes. My name is Enjolras. Courfeyrac--”

“Courfeyrac!” Grantaire groaned. “Oh Christ, no! Don't tell me you're part of his merry little band of tragically impoverished bohemian misfits.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Grantaire glowered. “I'm going to kill him!”

There was a thump from above them and Grantaire glared suspiciously at the ceiling.

“Courfeyrac told me--”

“But what about the Baron?” Grantaire interrupted. “He could be here any moment, you have to leave!” He strode to the door with Enjolras trailing behind. 

Grantaire swung open the door and saw Eponine and a middle aged man--the real Baron--walking down the hallway towards him. He slammed the door. “Shit!”

“The Baron?” asked Enjolras.

“The Baron.” Grantaire confirmed. “Hide!” He shoved Enjolras behind the food cart just as the door swung open again.

"R, are you ready for the Baron?” Eponine chirped. Grantaire stepped in front of the cart. “Where have you been?”

“Just, uh, just waiting here.” Eponine narrowed her eyes, but didn't insist on further details.

“Grantaire, allow me to introduce my father, and the owner of the Moulin Rouge, the Baron de Thenard. Father, this is Monsieur Saphir.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Grantaire replied, straining to keep the panic out of his voice.

“I'm sure the,  _ ahem, _ pleasure will be all mine,” the Baron answered with a smirk that sent a chill down Grantaire's spine.

“I'll leave you two to it!” Eponine said in an overly cheerful voice. Before Grantaire could figure out a delicate way to protest, she swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Well, after your performance earlier, you must be in need of some refreshment,” Thenardier said, stepping past Grantaire to reach for the champagne.

“Don't!” Grantaire exclaimed and he paused, turning to him with a confused expression. “Don't...you just...love the view?”

Thenardier’s eyes briefly flicked to the window and the skyline beyond. “Charming.” He started to reach for the champagne again.

“Oh!” Grantaire cried. “I feel like dancing, don't you?” He spun in a circle and reached out for the Baron, hoping to draw him away from the cart where Enjolras was still hiding.

“No,” Thenardier said shortly. “You see,  _ I  _ feel like having a glass of champagne.”

“No!”

Thenardier paused, turning away from the cart at last. “No?” He repeated. “I have to say, it's not something I'm told very often.” There was a dangerous glint in his eye and Grantaire knew he needed to figure out how to deescalate the situation.

“It's a little bit funny,” he said haltingly. Enjolras’ golden head popped up from behind the cart. “This…feeling inside.” Enjolras was mouthing the words for him. “I'm not one of those who can easily...hide.”

There was a great crash as Enjolras accidentally knocked a tray off of the cart. Thenardier started to turn and Grantaire dove for him. He ended up on his knees with his arms wrapped around the Baron’s legs, but at least he was looking at Grantaire again and not for the source of the noise.

“I don't have much money, but boy if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live.” Grantaire pushed Thenardier's knees apart. Enjolras was kneeling behind him and Grantaire waved him towards the door with as much ferocity as he dared. Without waiting to see if Enjolras would follow his instructions, he slid up the length of Thenardier's body until he was standing, pressed against him with his arms wrapped around his neck.

“ _ I hope you don't mind, hope you don't mind that I put down in words...how wonderful life is now you're in the world. _ ” Grantaire sang, struggling to remember the tune.

Thenardier's eyes lit up. “That's very beautiful.”

Grantaire chanced a look over his shoulder. Enjolras was at the door with his hand on the knob. Their eyes met. “It's from our new musical,  _ Spectacular Spectacular.  _ I'll admit I didn't understand the meaning of the words before, but now with you here, it all makes sense.”

Enjolras opened the door and Grantaire caught a glimpse of a burly man standing in the hallway before he slammed it shut again. Loudly. Much too loudly.

Grantaire threw himself on the bed with a cry. “Oh sir, please don't toy with my emotions! You must realize the effect you have on me.”

Thenardier hadn't turned the door, but he hadn't moved from where he was standing, either. Grantaire grabbed his wrist and yanked him onto the bed. “Let's make love!”

While Thenardier was trying to reorient himself, Grantaire jabbed his finger towards the balcony.  _ Go before he kills you!  _ he mouthed.

Enjolras started towards the balcony, but he paused, turning to Grantaire again. His mouth was a distressed moue and there was a clear question in his eyes.  _ Are you really going to sleep with him? _

Grantaire groaned in frustration. Thenardier clearly misinterpreted it and grabbed his waist. Enjolras still hadn't moved. Grantaire scowled at him, but he might as well have directed his glare at a marble statue for all the effect it had. 

“Oh, Baron! Perhaps you're right. We should wait.” Grantaire said out loud, giving Enjolras a pointed look.

Finally, a reaction. Enjolras gave a sharp nod and disappeared through the balcony curtains. Thenardier sat up.

“We should wait?” he repeated, clearly confused. Grantaire nodded enthusiastically.

“You’re so clever! If we wait until the time is right, it will be that much better. Perhaps until opening night.”  Before the Baron could realize that this hadn't been his idea at all, Grantaire leapt from the bed and hauled him to his feet. “I'm so lucky to have the attentions of a man such as yourself.”

“Indeed,” Thenardier agreed, easily following Grantaire to the door.

“So you'll understand why I want to be at my best for you,” Grantaire simpered, opening the door. “Have a wonderful night, Baron. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon.”

He shoved Thenardier across the threshold and slammed the door in his face. After taking a moment to compose himself, forehead pressed to the wood, Grantaire turned back to the room.

Enjolras was standing in the middle of the room again, arms crossed.

“What exactly is your problem?” Grantaire hissed, stomping towards him. “If Thenardier had discovered you here, he would've killed you!”

“I'm not afraid of that bourgeois coward,” Enjolras retorted. “Hiding behind his bodyguard so he doesn't have to interact with the rabble.”

“That bodyguard is Claquesous, and he's one of the most dangerous men in Paris,” snapped Grantaire. “And he probably would've killed me too, for the impertinence of having you here.” He was breathing too hard, his heart still slamming in his chest.

Enjolras looked contrite at that, at least. “He's a brute.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “And y-you are a fool.” He suddenly felt dizzy, like he couldn't get enough air. “Enjolras…” 

“Grantaire?” He felt his legs give out under him. The last thing he registered before the darkness claimed him were Enjolras’ strong arms catching him before he could fall.


	4. Wherein the Bohemian Revolutionaries Make Their Artistic Pitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019! So sorry for the delay in updates! I've had a rather chaotic few months, job shakeups, family drama, and pinch-hitting for a fic fest in another fandom, but I've returned. I will endeavor to be more consistent with updates going forward. As always, your comments bring me great joy.

It was the middle of the night, and Enjolras was inside of an elephant, staggering under the weight of an unconscious courtesan. He'd really thought things couldn't get stranger than a sleeping Argentinian falling through the ceiling of his flat. Clearly, he had been wrong

“Grantaire!” he whispered, “Are you alright? Please wake up!”

There was no response. Enjolras’ shoulders ached. 

“Okay, I'll just...get him to the bed. First step.” It was easier said than done. His arms trembled as he half-carried, half-dragged Grantaire the few feet to the bed. Gasping for breath, Enjolras went to drop him into the mattress, lost his balance, and tumbled after. He caught himself with a knee on the edge of the bed and a hand on either of Grantaire's shoulders.

The creak of the door had Enjolras looking up, but he wasn't quick enough to move from his unfortunate position. He could feel Grantaire starting to stir under his hands.

“I left my hat--” Thenardier was halfway through the sentence before the scene registered. His face purpled with rage. “What's this?!”

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but Grantaire gave a surprised gasp, pushing Enjolras away as he sat up. “Oh, Baron!”

“It's a little bit funny…” Thenardier growled, “this feeling inside…”

Enjolras straightened his posture, halfway to ready for a physical altercation, but Grantaire forestalled him again, leaping up from the bed with a huge smile. “Yes, exactly! Baron, let me introduce you to the writer of our new musical, Enjolras!”

“The writer?” Thenardier repeated, eyeing Enjolras dubiously.

“Yes, we were rehearsing!”

Enjolras smiled thinly, forcing himself to unclench his fists. It didn't seem to impress Thenardier, whose expression only darkened further.

“You expect me to believe you're rehearsing in the middle of the night? All alone? And after you threw me out with such haste?”

Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, throat working. Before Enjolras could formulate another lie, Grantaire’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, forehead creasing in confusion.

“How goes the rehearsal, my loves?” Courfeyrac demanded, striding in from the balcony, followed by the others.

“Is the piano in tune?” Feuilly asked.

“Sorry we're late,” added Bahorel.

“We were held up,” explained Combeferre.

To Grantaire's credit, he didn't hesitate to join in. For all his criticism of the Bohemians, thought Enjolras, he certainly managed to join their tomfoolery with ease. He spun to face Thenardier again, flashing a winning smile.

“I was...inspired by your visit earlier,” he said in a confessional tone. He draped his arms around Thenardier's neck and leaned close. Enjolras fought down the urge to yank him away from the so-called Baron. “So I called the production team in for an emergency rehearsal.”

Thenardier looked halfway to convinced, but his gaze suddenly sharpened with suspicion and he pushed Grantaire away. “If you are rehearsing,” he said with the air of a man laying down a trump card, “then why isn't my daughter here?”

The door burst open and Eponine tumbled into the room. “Father! I'm so sorry!”

“'Ponine, you made it!” Grantaire exclaimed. He raised his eyebrows significantly. “We were worried you weren't going to make it for the  _ emergency rehearsal _ .”

Eponine picked up the lie so seamlessly that Enjolras barely managed to not gape.  “Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the the world! I'm very excited to see what Marius has come up with.”

“Um, Marius left.”

Eponine spun to glare at Courfeyrac. “He  _ what _ ?”

Grantaire slapped a hand dramatically to his forehead and sighed. “The cat's out of the bag now, Eponine. As it turns out, the Baron is already a fan of our new writer. It's why he's so keen to...invest.”

Eponine gave Grantaire a shrewd look. “Of course, I'm happy to hear you're eager to invest, Baron. Forgive me for hiding Monsieur…” her eyes flicked to meet Enjolras’. 

“Enjolras,” he whispered.

“À tes amour,” quipped Courfeyrac.

“Monsieur An--Enjolras,” Eponine finished, teeth gritted.

“I'm way ahead of you, girl.” Thenardier replied. His suspicion seemed to be dwindling. “What's the story?”

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath. “The story?” Eponine repeated.

“How am I to invest if I'm not familiar with the story?” demanded Thenardier, a touch of his earlier irritation resurfacing. 

“Well, Courfeyrac!” barked Eponine, “Tell him the story.”

Courfeyrac jumped. “Ah, yes! The story...the--the story is about…” 

“It's about love!” Enjolras jumped in.

“Love?” Thenardier sneered.

“It's about true love overcoming all obstacles,” said Enjolras. He darted a glance at Grantaire. Grantaire stared back, bemused.

“And it's set in Switzerland!” Courfeyrac squeaked.

“Switzerland?” repeated Thenardier.

“Exotic Switzerland?” Eponine tried. Thenardier's scowl deepened.

“No, no, no!” Enjolras laughed, false and bright. “They're joking, of course. It's set in India. And, and there's a courtesan.” He glanced at Grantaire. “The most beautiful courtesan in the world.”

Grantaire's expression did some interesting acrobatics, but by the time he broke from Enjolras’ gaze and turned to Thenardier, he appeared to have recovered his confidence. “My role, of course.”

“The courtesan's kingdom is invaded by an evil maharajah, and in order to save his people, the courtesan must seduce him!” Enjolras exclaimed, turning to face Thenardier directly. “But on the night of the seduction, he mistakes a penniless wr--a penniless…” For a moment, Enjolras floundered, but then he spotted a collection of instruments in the corner of the room. “A penniless sitar player for the maharajah, and he falls in love with him.”

He spun back to face Grantaire, suddenly desperate to apologize. “He wasn’t trying to trick the courtesan or anything.”

The barest hint of a smile touched the corner of Grantaire's mouth and Enjolras had to bite down on his own giddy grin.

“Then why was he dressed like a maharajah?” Thenardier interrupted.

“Because he was appearing in a play!” Combeferre scoffed, like it was obvious. “It's very modern, a play within a play.”

Bahorel leapt forward, throwing a jovial arm around Thenardier's shoulders. “I will play the penniless sitar player. He will sing like an angel, but dance like the devil.”

“Yes, that's all very well,” snapped Thenardier, shoving him away. “What happens next?”

“The sitar player and the courtesan must hide their love, or the evil maharajah will surely have them killed.” Enjolras invents.

“But the sitar player's sitar is magical,” Feuilly jumps in, “and, and it can only speak the truth!”

“I will play the magical sitar!” cried Courfeyrac, brandishing the sitar. He glanced at Grantaire and strummed the strings. “You are beautiful.” He looked at Eponine. “You are terrifying.” He turned to Thenardier. And you are--”

Combeferre clapped a hand over his mouth. “I think he gets the gist, Courf.”

“The magical sitar gives the game away,” Grantaire explained.

“Tell the Baron about the cancan, Enjolras.” Eponine added.

“The, uh, tantric cancan?” he said uncertainly.

Eponine rolled her eyes, and shoved him out of the way. “It's an erotic spectacular scene that captures the thrusting, violent, vibrant, wild bohemian spirit that this whole production embodies, Baron.”

Thenardier raised an eyebrow. “You certainly think highly of this script, girl.”

“Father, if I may, this is the best script I have ever seen come across my desk. I think it's going to be spectacular.”

Enjolras tried to keep the surprise off his face. He hadn't really been expecting Eponine to lie so convincingly, especially to her father. But she didn't blink as Thenardier studied her expression and then glanced around the room at the rest of the assembly.

“Of course, you'll also be involved artistically.” she added.

“With your patronage, Baron, we could have the finest stage craft to do this wonderful script justice.” Grantaire put in. He reached out and straighten Thenardier's collar, letting his fingers brush over his throat. Enjolras shoved his hands into his pockets and grimaced.

“Yes, but what happens at the end?” demands Thenardier.

“The courtesan and the sitar player are pulled apart by the maharajah's evil designs but in the end, the courtesan hears the sitar player's song and realizes their love is too strong to be destroyed.” Enjolras explained. He looked up to see Grantaire's shocked blue eyes fixed on him.

“How sentimental,” Thenardier quipped.

“The song he writes, it helps him get a message to the courtesan and they are able to escape and live happily ever after.”

“And here I thought the modern plays all ended with the heroes dying.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Eponine jumped back into the pitch. “So what do you say, Baron? A worthy investment?”

Thenardier let out a huff. “I suppose so. But I expect to be involved every step of the way.”

Eponine grinned hugely. “Of course, of course! Thank you so much for your generosity!”

Bahorel crowed, and soon the other Bohemians had joined in his cheering. Even Enjolras was caught up in the excitement, flashing a brilliant smile at Grantaire.

They had an investor and, better yet, he would be able to spend more time with Grantaire. This Bohemian adventure was shaping up to be something well worth his time.

 

*

 

The Bohemians decided they needed to have a party.

“This is a cause for celebration!” crowed Courfeyrac as they spilled onto pavement outside the nightclub. “I want to dance the night away!”

Enjolras smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He would much rather stay and speak more with Grantaire, but it was clearly out of his hands. Eponine had practically chased them out before steering her father back to her offices to discuss the contract.

“I’ve invited the Moulin Rouge performers to join us,” Feuilly put in. “Since they’re just as important to the production as the rest of us.”

“Have they agreed to join us?” Enjolras asked, striving for nonchalance. If the way Courfeyrac’s eyebrows shot up was any indication, he hadn’t succeeded. 

“Not your muse,” he said slyly. “But the rest of the Diamond Dogs are coming ‘round.”

As if on cue, the doors opened and a group dressed in bright colors emerged. Enjolras recognized them as the dancers he had seen perform earlier in the evening--two women and two men. Bringing up the rear of the group was the tall, slender ginger who had caught Graintaire when he fell from the trapeze. 

“Jehan!” cried Courfeyrac, leaping forward to drag the redhead into an embrace. “My darling, how are you?” 

The ginger--Jehan shot him a bright grin and returned the hug. “ _ This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. _ ”

“Rumi?” Combeferre asked, accepting his own hug. 

Jehan’s face lit up. “One and the same! How are you, my friend?”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac pulled him over. “Come meet Jehan!”

Despite Jehan's willowy frame, their grip was firm. “Glad to see Courfeyrac is still collecting idealists.”

“As am I,” agreed Enjolras fervently. Jehan laughed, bell-like, and glanced over their shoulder. “Bossuet, Joly! Come meet the writer of our new musical.”

The tall, bald one approached first, a huge grin on his face. “Nice to meetcha!” The smaller man trailed behind, waving an ornately decorated cane excitedly. Introductions were made, and Enjolras met Bossuet and Joly, as well as shy, blonde Cosette and Musichetta, whose dark eyes glittered with mischief. 

It was the latter of the four who handed him a silver flask that seemed to have materialized from nowhere as they walked together back to the apartments.

“To your play,” she said with a wink. Enjolras lifted the flask in acknowledgement and took a swig. It was filled with something cold and sweet and he took another draught before handing it back. 

He lost the thread for a while, after that.

The next time Enjolras took stock of his surroundings, they were gathered on the roof of the building, toasting one another with yet another glass of cheap sparkling wine. He drained his drink and drifted to the other side if the roof, where it was quieter and less crowded. He dropped to sit, legs dangling over the edge. From his vantage point, Enjolras could see the Moulin Rouge, lit up against the night sky. 

It was the first time since he'd left Grantaire's rooms that he'd had a moment to think, and his thoughts immediately drifted back to the courtesan. Enjolras had never met anyone like Grantaire before. The way he felt looking into those vibrant, blue eyes was something he had never experienced. 

He had to talk to him. Grantaire had nearly kissed him, had said he  _ loved _ him. Enjolras had never been the type avoid a necessary conversation, but it was more than that. He missed Grantaire, even though he barely knew him. That had to mean something, right?

“Are you going back over there?” Combeferre's voice startled him and he teetered on the edge of the roof until Ferre put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's alright,” Enjolras said, taking his proffered hand and getting to his feet. “I was just leaving.”

“Are you going back to see Grantaire?” Combeferre repeated, dropping all pretense at subtly. Enjolras felt his face heat. “It's okay, I'm not going to say anything to anyone. But may I offer you a small piece of advice?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Grantaire is wonderful, and I hope you'll be able to find some happiness together. But the Baron is a very powerful, dangerous man. Please be cautious.”

“We will,” Enjolras answered, rather than telling him that he wasn't even sure what he was looking for yet. “I appreciate your concern.”

Combeferre nudged their shoulders together with a sardonic smile. “Well I have grown quite fond of you over the last couple of days.”

 

*

 

Claquesous was still lurking around the courtyard when Enjolras arrived, so he scrambled towards the elephant as quickly as he could. He grabbed the tail and started to climb up, going as quickly and quietly as he dared. When he reached the top, he found the balcony doors still open. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped inside.

Grantaire was sitting at the foot of the bed, wearing a green silk robe and holding an open book. His eyes were fixed on the page, but he didn't seem to actually be reading.

“Um, hello?”

Grantaire yelped in surprise, jumping to his feet  and flinging the book at him. Enjolras ducked and it sailed over his head, landing with a thump on the balcony behind him.

“I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you.” Enjolras held up his hands and smiled reassuringly. “I just--I saw your light on, and…”

“What?” Grantaire prompted, blue eyes fixed on him.

“I couldn't sleep and I wanted to thank you,” Enjolras explained haltingly, “for helping me get the job.” It wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but it must not have been too terrible because Grantaire's expression softened.

“Of course. Courfeyrac was right. You are very talented.”

“Oh.”

“It's going to be a wonderful show,” Grantaire offered. He cleared his throat. “Anyway... I had better--I mean, we both have a big day tomorrow and-and it's late…” He started to back away and though he didn't really know what to say, Enjolras knew he didn't want Grantaire to leave.

“Wait, please!” Grantaire froze, a wary expression on his face. “Earlier, when we--when you thought I was the Baron. You, um, you said that you loved me and I was wondering--”

“If it was all an act?” 

Enjolras winced. “Yes.”

“Of course.” There was no hesitation in his answer and Enjolras felt his heart sink.

“Oh. It just felt real.”

Grantaire's lips twisted in sympathy and Enjolras had to look away. “I'm a courtesan, Enjolras. It's my job to make people think I'm in love with them, and I'm very good at it.”

Enjolras was mortified. “Of course. It was silly of me to think someone like you could f-fall in love with someone like me.”

“Someone like…” Grantaire chuckled. “It's not like that. I can't afford to fall in love with  _ anyone _ .”

“Can't fall in love?” Enjolras cried, “But a life without love, that's terrible!”

“No, being on the street is terrible.”

“Love is more essential than shelter!” Enjolras protested, “Without love, the rest of it is just meaningless.”

Grantaire snorted. “And that's why you're a penniless writer and I live in luxury.” He made a gesture encompassing the rooms.

“I don't see the value of any of this if you don't have anyone to share it with.”

“You see no value in knowing where your next meal is coming from?” Grantaire said, disbelief coloring his expression. “Or knowing you'll have a roof over your head when winter comes? You're insane.”

Enjolras grinned. “See, that's the beauty of it. Even if you don't have those things, you have someone there with you through even the hardest of times. Love may not fill your belly, but it can sustain your soul.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I prefer a full belly, myself. And what do you know, anyway? You've never even been in love.”

“Yes, I have,” Enjolras answered immediately. “I--I mean, I am.” He felt his face heating, but he stubbornly held Grantaire's gaze.

Grantaire's eyes widened. “With me?” He squeaked.

Enjolras nodded, taking a step towards him.He was terrified, but determined not to show it. “And I think you're in love with me, too.” 

“That's preposterous!” Grantaire said shrilly. “I barely even know you.”

“I think you're just afraid,” Enjolras challenged.

“Of course I'm afraid!” exclaimed Grantaire. “If the Baron found out, we'd both be dead!”

“So it's true, then?” Enjolras pressed, “You  _ do  _ have feelings for me.” He reached out and tried to take Grantaire's hand, but he jerked away. He paced to the other side of the room and poured himself a glass of champagne, and then swallowed it back in a single fluid movement. He glanced furtively at Enjolras.

“How do I know you're not going to turn out to be mean or have a terrible temper?”

“I won't, I promise.”

“I--I drink a lot. Too much, probably.” As if making a point, he refilled his glass and gestured with it.

“I don't care.”

Grantaire had stopped backing away, but neither was he moving back towards Enjolras. He tossed back his drink and sat the flute down gingerly. “We have no idea what could happen. So many things could go wrong.”

“Then shouldn't we make the most of whatever time we have?” Enjolras said gently.

“Even if it's just one day?”

Enjolras approached him again and took his hands. This time, Grantaire didn't pull away. “Even if it's just one hour.”

Grantaire's lips twitched upward into a smile. He lifted his face towards Enjolras and put a hand on his cheek. Enjolras wasn't sure which of them moved first, but then they were kissing. He ran his fingers through Grantaire's hair pulling him closer, wanting to be as near to him as possible. 

When they finally pulled apart, Enjolras felt like there were fireworks exploding in his chest. He grinned like an idiot and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of Grantaire's nose.

Grantaire's eyes were sparkling. “Ohh, you're gonna be bad for business. I can tell.”


End file.
